There and Back Again: A Half-Elf's Tale
by mollygrue13
Summary: Rowan has worked at The Prancing Pony since she was sixteen, and she is concerned that she won't be able to keep her secret much longer. One night a mysterious Ranger arrives who, although a total stranger, seems to know exactly who, and what, she is. My first fanfiction. Ever. Mostly OC right now, but soon to include lots of Strider. Very AU/AR. Rated T because...who knows?
1. Chapter 1

**Hello, readers! This is my very first fanfiction EVER, so please be gentle! Since I've never done this before, I don't know how long I'll stick with it, but I have had this story, or rather the big scenes from it, in my head for years. And I'm finally starting to write them down. There's a lot more coming, but I was too excited about posting for the first time to write a longer first chapter. Hopefully more will come very soon. Thanks! I own nothing LOTR, obviously. Also, this is clearly very very AU. Or AR. Or whatever.**

The Prancing Pony was packed, filled with the travelers, merchants, and wanderers for whom Bree was an essential stopping point. For some it was their last, and they were celebrating with gusto, prepared to sleep for days in the inn above the tavern after their long journey followed by a long night of wine and Barliman's Best ale. It was still fairly early in the evening, so the Pony had yet to transition from crowded to outright rowdy.

Rowan prepared herself for a long night of delivering pints and steaming spiced beef and taters, as well the occasional bit of unwelcome attention from her customers later in the night. She was the only female staffing The Prancing Pony, and after long weeks of traveling many of the men found her a fascinating sight. Having worked at the tavern for ten years, since she was sixteen, she was rarely bothered by their looks anymore — as long as they remained looks.

She only hoped Morton would not make her perform.

The kindhearted Barliman Butterbur, owner of The Prancing Pony, had journeyed south to live with family two years ago, and Rowan missed him every day. He would never have forced her into singing were he still in Bree. But then, she always thought, money changes people, and he had had no idea how much more money she could bring in. He had never known what she truly was.

Morton, on the other hand..._stop._ Rowan shook her head, attempting to forget her worries, as she wiped a table clean and trotted back to the bar to collect the next bunch of pints.

After delivering a second round to the very large party of merchants who were celebrating beginning their journey on the East Road the next morning (_you won't be getting an early start_, thought Rowan), she realized a man had been smoking in the corner for nearly half an hour without her attention. _A Ranger...of course I didn't see him. He looks quite at home in that dark corner, almost as though he doesn't want to be seen. _Rangers tended to be relatively easy customers, rarely drinking too much or behaving too roughly, but it was difficult not to feel on your guard around them. Rowan wondered if she had neglected to see him half-intentionally, her mind putting off going near someone she knew would make her feel uncertain and too...known. Rangers tended to look at everyone as if they could see people's entire lives written on their faces. She knew they couldn't, of course, but she didn't like even the feeling that someone could know more about her than she let them.

Wiping spilt ale onto her apron, she trotted over to the man in the corner. This one looked like he had been in the wilderness for a fair time; his face was dirty and his dark hair hung limply down to his shoulders, but these signs of a Ranger's life couldn't keep Rowan from noticing that he was handsome. Impressively so, actually. However, he still had that stoic look that they all had, and she met his with a smile.

"Welcome, sir," she exclaimed, a strand of red hair falling over her left eye. "What can I bring to you this evening?" Her only answer was the Ranger's face changing from cooly observant to surprised, at least as surprised as a Ranger's face could muster. His dark eyes looked at her blue ones with a strange intensity as his lips slightly parted in astonishment — Rowan thought he was gazing at her as if he had once known her, but never expected to see her again. Rangers always made her feel eerie, but this was new.

After standing with her hands pointlessly hanging at her sides for an uncomfortable amount of time, she repeated her question, if more uneasily. "Sir? Isn't there anything I can bring to you?" The man seemed to remember where they were, although his odd stare remained. "Ah, yes, of course. Wine, please."

"Yes, sir." Rowan hurried away from the table, unsure about how she felt about the encounter. His manner was disconcerting, to be sure, but his look — it was not the way the other customers looked at her. She had the distinct feeling that if he could truly see into her, if he somehow knew her, she would not be afraid.


	2. Chapter 2

An hour later, The Prancing Pony was only slightly more full but twice as loud, and Rowan's laughter sounded above the deep masculine racket surrounding her.

"Come, Rowan, you should come with us one day. We'll take you down The Green Way, toward the warm south. You waste your young face up here in the north." Rowan smiled and gleefully shook her head. Alden and his companions came to the Pony every few months on their way to Rowan-never-knew-where. The world outside Bree was too vast for her to keep track of all the places that travelers mentioned; she imagined it as a vast compass with The Prancing Pony at the center, stretching out to points far past the horizon and just as untouchable.

"And where would you take me, then? What would I see? Nothing too terrifying, I hope?" she teased Alden.

"Oh, no, certainly not, my dear." The older man flashed a not-so-secretive grin at his companions, and his brown eyes twinkled. "We'll only take you down The Green Way a piece until the crossing at Tharbad...you have heard of Tharbad, no? A ruined city on the hills, with pieces of stone falling into the river and onto the road from once grand mansions. The only way to cross is to walk along these chunks of ruin over the rushing waters...you would not be concerned about ghosts, would you?" Alden stroked his short, slightly graying beard as though seriously envisioning leading Rowan through this land of perils. "After that, a week or so on The Old South Road will bring us to Fangorn Forest. No concerns about that, I take it?"

Laughing, Rowan replied, "Certainly not, good man!" Alden loved to scare her, or pretend to. "After serving fellows like you lot for ten years, not even your Fangorn could frighten me!" This caused a roar of laughter from the men, as she gathered their empty mugs and dishes with feigned cockiness and carried them on a tray toward the kitchens. She enjoyed joking with Alden and the others, but part of its bittersweet fun came from the knowledge that she would never leave Bree. She wondered about the wider world, but had so little actual information about it that she couldn't do much more than wonder. Tales tall as mountains reached her ears every night working at the Pony, but she automatically dismissed them as half-truths and wild exaggerations. Bree was where her life had begun, and she had always assumed it was where her life would end. She did aspire, though, to making that life a little better than it was now. Perhaps _she _would run the Pony one day.

Still slightly grinning, Rowan carried the tray of mugs into the long, dark hallway that led around the back of the bar into the kitchens. The grin faded completely, however, when she glanced up to see Morton walking toward her. Recovering, she forced her face to look pleasant and mildly happy as she watched him tromping down the hall. A nasty smirk on a red face returned her gaze, and his gait betrayed both that he had already consumed a lot of ale and that he was looking forward to something.

"Hello, Morton," Rowan said as she tried to pass him quickly.

"Hello, dear." His pudgy hand on her arm stopped her. Her own cramped hand reminded her how many mugs were on that tray, but her stomach told Rowan what Morton would say next. "I think it's the right time for some music, don't you?"

"I'm not singing tonight, Morton." She tried to walk away, but his arm prevented her from trying too hard without losing the tray.

"Sorry, I didn't mean that as a question. I meant to say that it's time for some music, so put those away and then do what I pay you for."

Now she turned to face him and steadied her stance. She had been preparing for this. "No, Morton. You pay me to take orders, serve the customers food and ale, and clean your tavern _and_ your inn from floor to ceiling, and I will only do what I am paid for. I am never going to play that trick on these people again just so you can have a few more coins in your pocket. Barliman wouldn't have wanted it, and neither do I." _A bit breathless at the end,_ Rowan thought, _but overall well put._ Morton hadn't interrupted, which surprised her, and now she made sure to look right in his eyes and set her jaw.

"Are you finished?" he slurred with apparent boredom.

"I am."

The tray, the mugs, and the dishes came crashing to the ground as Morton grabbed both of her arms and pushed her against the wall. His face was almost touching her cheek, so that she could feel his hot, boozy breath on her ear and the slight brush of his stubble on her skin.

"Now listen closely, you," he whispered. "You're going to do exactly what I want you to do, for one reason. Because I know what's under here." One hand released her left arm as the other compensated by holding her right more tightly. It firmly yanked back the thick lock of red hair she always kept so strongly pinned down to reveal the delicate point at the top of her ear.


	3. Chapter 3

**Thank you for all the encouragement, people! I feel so spurred on to keep writing. I want to say a special thank-you to The Great Blond Balrog Slayer (awesome name), Alfirineth, Sparky, and Your Perfect Nightmare for their generous comments. And thanks to all who are following - that's definitely an inspiration to stop watching T.V. and write something. Necessary disclaimer: the lyrics to the song in this part are Tolkien's, as most of you will probably know already.**

Delicate strands of red hair tumbled into her eyes as Rowan frantically attempted to shake the dirty hand away while her left hand flew up to cover her ear with hair once more.

"Don't touch me. You don't need to do that, I understand." Her words acquiesced, but her tone still communicated rebellion.

"You don't seem to. Don't forget, dear: if I squeal about what you are, not even a pig farmer would let you feed his hogs slop. You'll be a dangerous freak, a lunatic waiting to take advantage of men's weaknesses. And to the elves, if you should run to them...if you can even find them," he added with a smirk, "you'll be an embarrassment, a reminder of some dead elvish whore they'd rather forget. I think I deserve a little more gratitude. You know, things might be easier for you if you let me see what's under other things..." By now, Morton's hand had moved back to holding her other arm, and his knowing grin was barely an inch from her eyes. In reply, Rowan spit in them. It was not her most refined moment, she knew, but this man seemed to react to little else but the most crude communications, and on this point clarity was essential. She barely had time to enjoy his shocked expression, however, before his hand slapped the left side of her mouth, hard. In two years, he had only hit her once before. He must be either quite drunk, or more desperate for company than she had imagined. She kept her face toward the kitchen end of the hallway, where the slap had left it, her jaw set in defiance but silenced.

"Pick this up," the innkeeper growled quietly, "and go bloody sing." With a final squeeze on her arm, he released her and stomped down the hall toward the bar. Only a few seconds after their violent encounter, the sound of his jolly greeting to the bartenders reached Rowan's ears as she remained by the wall, eyes closed as she caught her breath and tried to suppress her anger. Finally, she sighed and began collecting the mugs and plates, many of which had fresh chips, and replacing them on the tray. Glancing unthinkingly up at the grey curtain that separated the hallway from the tavern, something caught Rowan's eye, a hint of a person who had been watching but who had vanished at the moment that she had looked up from her task. The Ranger flitted across her mind, and was gone almost as quickly.

The dishes collected and put away, her hair pinned carefully over her ears again, and her hands and face washed and dried, the young woman solemnly walked back down the hallway toward the tavern hall. As the sounds of merriment grew louder, her expression shifted to match them. The head bartender knew how to read the way she entered the room, and after she briefly caught his eye, he slammed his palm on the table for attention and announced: "Everyone, a little music for you tonight! Our own Rowan is going to serenade us!"

Most of the visitors had come to The Prancing Pony before, usually countless times in the past two years, and they clearly recognized what was coming. Cheers erupted, a few people shouted Rowan's name, and hands and feet pounded the tables and floor. Rowan stepped onto a chair at the front of the room, inhaled, and sang something her grandmother had sung to her before she died.

_The leaves were long, the grass was green, _

_The hemlock-umbels tall and fair, _

_And in the glade a light was seen _

_Of stars in shadow shimmering. _

_Tinuviel was dancing there _

_To music of a pipe unseen, _

_And light of stars was in her hair_

_And in her raiment glimmering. _

_There Beren came from mountains cold, _

_And lost he wandered under leaves, _

_And where the Elven-river rolled, _

_He walked alone and sorrowing. _

_He peered between the hemlock-leaves _

_And saw in wonder flowers of gold _

_Upon her mantle and her sleeves, _

_And her hair like shadow following. _

Rowan thought of her grandmother as she sang, and how she told her this tale of a human man and an elven lady falling in love thousands of years ago. She expected that the song was meant to give her a beautiful picture to put in the place of her father and mother, whom Rowan had never known. As she sang verse after verse and her thoughts became more complicated, those of the men became more cloudy. Rowan's eyes watched theirs glaze over, staring at nothing in the distance. _They'll be here for hours now,_ she knew. _Drinking until the sunrise and putting more money into the Pony's saddlebags. Otherwise known as Morton._


	4. Chapter 4

_**I'm sorry this is a bit short, but a little writing is better than no writing, eh? I hope there's less space between updates next time. Hope you enjoy!**_

The sun was only a couple of hours from rising by the time that Rowan finally closed and barred the front door of the tavern, and began washing the piles of mugs and dishes that had formed in the kitchen. Sighing, she uncovered the massive tub of clean water that she had filled earlier in the night and picked up the first cup.

She had only finished five or so when she heard something behind her in the doorway. A footstep. A customer, surely, drunk and unsure of how to find his way to his rooms upstairs. It was not so uncommon an occurrence, and Rowan did not even turn around or stop scrubbing.

"Sir, do you need help finding your room?" she called over the sounds of splashing water and her stiff brush.

"No, thank you," was the quiet reply. _Not drunk at all. _

Finally whirling around and expecting to find one of Alden's men leaning in the doorway looking for a romantic send-off, or something similar, Rowan saw instead the Ranger from earlier in the night, the one who had stared at her so strangely.

"Oh, you're still here," she said somewhat stupidly. After serving him a couple of pints of ale and some bread she had forgotten about him, but he had apparently been there for hours after she last saw him. A little twinge of guilt rose in her consciousness, since she did take a small amount of pride in being a decent and attentive server. The man did not answer, and only continued to look at Rowan in that way that made her feel discovered, like any secret kept from this man would never have been a secret in the first place. His silence prompted her to take a better look of her own, and she saw that he was taller than most men in Bree, and held himself differently. Although his clothing seemed no more costly than that of a typical Ranger, and his face was dirty and unshaven, his posture suggested that he would have felt as at home in a lord's manor as he did here. His clothing was black from shoulder to heel, and was made of the tough leather stuff designed for long journeys in the wild. A sword hung from his belt.

"Sir, I'm sorry, but we've closed for the night. You'll have to leave. Unless you have a room?"

"I need to speak to you. Rowan, is it?" Rowan suppressed the little shock she got at the sound of her name by remembering that he had been in the tavern all night, and people would surely have been mentioning her name after she had sung.

"Yes, it is, but you could have spoken to me tonight, when we were open." She disliked speaking firmly to this man, but the dishes and the late hour weighed on her mind, and it made her uneasy that somehow she had failed to even glimpse him when she had closed up the tavern.

"I knew you would rather be alone, when we spoke."

"And why is that?" She feared some kind of awkward romantic advance. Or worse, something not-so-awkward that would tempt her to do something dangerous. She looked square in the Ranger's brown eyes, while he gave her the slightest of smiles that almost calmed her fears. There was a hint of sadness in it. He still hadn't moved from the doorway, just as Rowan hadn't moved from where she stood surrounded by tubs and pails and dishes, the piles appearing slightly protective of her. The Ranger paused for a few seconds, waiting for the right way, or the right moment, to begin.

"I enjoyed hearing you sing tonight."

Rowan almost laughed, but only managed a wry, weary grin. "Yes, well, _sir_, so does everyone."

The Ranger actually laughed. "Yes, I know. But I actually heard you. I could listen. I was raised in Rivendell, so elvensong does not affect me like it does these northern men. And you can call me Strider."


	5. Chapter 5

**Hello, readers! I'm sorry it's been too long since my last post. My dissertation has been occupying a lot of time right now, and it's hard to want to write more, even when it's fun! Thank you again to all who have subscribed to this story and to all who've left those wonderful reviews. You guys don't know how much those brighten my day. **

Rowan suddenly had to think about how to breathe. Putting a hand out to steady herself, she realized that her panic was followed by a small sense of resignation, even relief. She had feared for years that something like this could happen, one day, considering all the travelers that came through the Pony's doors. At least now the time when she would have to leave her tiny world of Bree was certain, although she had hoped that if she did have to flee she would have some kind of a plan. Now all she could do was stare ahead of her, and attempt to construct a plan as she went.

It had been quiet in the kitchen since the Ranger had spoken his name for some time. Strider appeared to be waiting patiently for the young woman he had shocked to speak next. Finally, she moved her steady gaze from the pots on the wall to his face and asked,

"What are you going to do?" If she at least knew his intentions, Rowan considered, she could prepare more easily for the abrupt turn her life would take.

"I am here to warn you."

"Warn me," she dumbly repeated. His voice sounded almost kind, as if he had no choice but to reveal her secret. Maybe he felt that he had none, that she truly was some kind of danger as Morton always predicted. His dark eyebrows lowered in an expression of concern.

"Are you frightened?"

Rowan paused. Is this a threat? Sympathy? She was too exhausted for anything but honesty.

"Yes. I am frightened." For the first time since she had first seen him at the kitchen door, the Ranger, Strider, moved toward her. His steps were cautious, however, watching her carefully to judge whether he should stop.

"You ought to be frightened, but not of me. I have come to tell you that you are threatened by a force that you know not of, but that hunts you even now." He was two feet from her now, and his voice had become quieter as he talked. By the time he stopped walking he was almost speaking in a whisper. Rowan could not take in such an abrupt change in her situation.

"What? You are wrong, no one would be hunting me. You must have mistaken me for someone," she protested, and began to turn around toward the dishes once more, as if she expected the Ranger to shrug and leave the kitchen. She didn't get too far before Strider put his hand gently on her arm to stop her.

"Please, Rowan. Listen to me. My words are true, and you are in grave danger." His words were incredibly urgent, and when she looked at his eyes, she realized they had to be honest. Either she ought to be terrified of this unknown force, or this Ranger was a great master of deception.

"But why? I know nothing, I have never been outside this town, no one knows who I am! Who could possibly want to hurt me?" Despite her efforts to remain calm and suppress the belief in Strider that was increasingly overtaking her reason, her voice betrayed her fear.

"Someone who knows that you possess something very dear and very rare, but which looks ordinary enough." He paused and leaned close to Rowan's face, looking intently into her eyes as though trying to read the answer to his coming question himself. Then he whispered, "Rowan, do you have a gold ring? One that is...special?"

Her face told him the answer before she could speak. "Have you...how do you know that? Have you...spied...on me?"

"No, Rowan. I swear to you, I have never seen you before tonight. I will explain how I knew who you were as soon as I saw you. Now, though, we must depart Bree if we are to escape those who pursue us. Do you trust me?"

Did she? She thought through the two possible versions of the next day. She could put her life in the hands of this stranger who knew too much about her, but who also seemed to know more about Middle-Earth than anyone she had ever met. She could also choose not to believe him, tell him to leave, and wait for a mysterious dark pursuer who would most likely never arrive. That small chance that it might, however, and the torturous prospect of waiting for death made Rowan's decision for her. When she spoke her voice was firm.

"Yes. I trust you, Strider. What must I do?" Even amidst his look of concern, Rowan saw the hint of a smile on the Ranger's face.

"Go to your chamber and collect your things. We may have to travel quite far, so bring only what you can carry, and remember that you may not come back for a long time. And bring the ring. I want to test it, to make certain it is the one they seek."


	6. Chapter 6

There were not many things to collect. Rowan had one leather bag that could hang on her back between her shoulders and tailbone, and she would have to leave all that was too heavy or would not fit. She grabbed and folded two work dresses (the only type she owned), a warm shawl, underthings, and three pairs of stockings for her feet. She already wore a belt and boots. All of the money she had saved went in a small pouch that was tucked into the bottom of the bag, followed by a satchel of biscuits, gloves, and a small quilt she'd made when she had first moved into the room above the tavern. Last, she dug through the clothing that remained in her drawers and found the tiny case that held the ring Strider thought so important and that could have brought, could still bring, her death.

Rowan stood for a moment in the center of her room, somewhat in shock over what she was doing. Her sudden trust in this strange man was almost unbelievable and nearly made her question her decision, but she reminded herself that she had already made this choice, down in the kitchen, and the alternative to leaving Bree was too frightening. Despite her unhappiness during the last two years at The Prancing Pony, an incredible sadness overtook her as she looked at the little room. She did not have much, but there were still things of hers that she cherished that she could not take with her, like the book of fairy stories that she had read with her grandmother. Impractical, and heavy, to take on such a journey. At the moment she would have begun to cry, though, she swallowed the stone rising in her throat and turned on her heel, shutting the door behind her.

She found Strider where she had left him, in the kitchen where a small fire was still burning. It lit his face in such a way that he looked dangerous and yet good, like a man from another age when grand histories were acted out by grand people. Although Rowan was certain he must have heard her come down the stairs, his eyes did not leave the fire until she softly said,

"I've brought it."

He looked up, not at her, but at the small box she held. His face was still a little inscrutable to Rowan, but if she had to guess, she would have said that he was trying to mask fear with the appearance of hope.

"Let us see what kind of ring this is, and if perhaps I have made a mistake and you can remain here at home."

As she handed him the box, Strider asked, "Have you ever worn it?"

"No. It's always just stayed in that box. My grandmother...she said the ring was a bit funny, but probably worth a lot. She made me promise not to put it on and not to sell it unless I desperately needed money. If it _was_ cursed or something like, she said, she didn't want someone else suffering from it."

Strider was listening, although his eyes didn't leave the box, which he still had not opened. Suddenly his mind seemed to change about something.

"Perhaps you should do this. Take it out, Rowan, and toss it into the fire."

"What?"

"I am fairly certain the flames will not hurt it, and if they do, it will be a relief for you. Trust me."

Rowan opened the box and took out the ring, a thick but simple gold band that was too big to fit on anything but her forefinger, or even her thumb. It felt surprisingly heavy, as if beneath the gold it was really a ring of lead. It flew into the fire at her toss, as she looked at Strider while he watched the ring. After minutes of silence, besides the crackles of the flames, the Ranger reached for a pair of fire tongs and used them to retrieve the ring.

"Hold out your hand. It will not burn you."

She had trusted him this far. As the ring dropped into her hand, Rowan was shocked to find that it was not even warm. Strangely, it felt a little lighter than it had previously, and seemed slightly smaller.

"How strange," she said. Strider only replied,

"Look on the band. Is there anything there, anything written?"

Rowan looked carefully, wanting to be certain before she answered. At first, she could see nothing but the brilliant, untarnished gold and felt for the smallest moment that all this was a ridiculous mistake, as Strider said it could be. No sooner had she felt it, though, than she began to see red letters appearing on the band, as though they were coming through a fog but getting more and more clear with every passing second. Never had fascination and fear been so intertwined for her.

"There is something here. Words, but in some language I can't read. Do you want to look at them?"

As she looked up she found that Strider was finally looking at her, and he was doing so with a mixture of pity and anger, as though Rowan was telling a story about someone who had wronged her.

"There is no need. I can tell you what they say. They are words from an old rhyme: 'One ring to rule them all, one ring to find them, One ring to bring them all and in the darkness bind them.'"

Rowan could not understand what the words meant, or how they pertained to her, or why it was she who possessed such an object. She knew now, however, that she fully trusted in this Ranger, and that she would probably never return to Bree. Her thoughts were filled with images of dark, fiery places peopled with monsters from children's nightmares. After she did not speak for some minutes, Strider said,

"We leave within the hour."


	7. Chapter 7

They had been traveling for four days. In that time, Rowan had learned all she cared to know about the plain-looking ring that she now wore on a string around her neck. Strider had told her the tales of Sauron, the Dark Lord of Mordor, who had tricked elves, dwarves, and men by secretly making a ring, her ring, that would rule over theirs. On the second night of their journey, the story of the war that caused Sauron's downfall entranced her, as she heard of Isildur's triumph over him and his own weakness while he possessed the One Ring, which Strider had begun to call it. By the third day, Rowan had gathered the courage to ask about who exactly pursued them with such ferocity, and the Ringwraiths first entered her imagination — the men who had first held the nine magic rings that Sauron controlled, and whose lust for power had been transformed into their utter loss of free will. She stopped her guide from describing them in too much detail, and did her best not to think about them when they stopped to sleep at night.

By now, the half-elven woman was exhausted. Her bed at The Prancing Pony had been far from luxurious, but sleeping on the ground still took some getting used to. Traveling in general was a completely new experience, and she often felt ashamed at her inability to help Strider more, even though he was clearly perfectly capable of finding food and shelter for both of them. Despite their four days together, he was still something of a mystery. He seemed to never tire; they stopped to rest at places he carefully chose during the day, but although Rowan never complained these times of rest came almost precisely when she thought she could not walk much longer. She also could not tell when he slept. She fell asleep each evening watching his back as he sat and gazed steadfastly out at the horizon, or into the surrounding forest, and she had yet to wake in the night and catch him with his eyes closed. The night after she learned of the Ringwraiths a horrible nightmare had taken her, and she had woken with a start, red hair sweaty and sticking to her face and neck, to find Strider's firm hand on her shoulder and his equally firm eyes meeting hers. Neither of them had spoken, and his hand had remained on her shoulder until sleep took her again.

The ring around her neck made her uneasy, especially the fact that hiding it from possible passersby meant it had to rest against her skin. Nevertheless, she exerted every effort against the urge to touch it, and even avoided playing with the string absentmindedly as they walked. Ideally, the awful thing would be at the bottom of the pack she carried, but the fear of losing it kept it on her person and out of sight at all times. Strider had convinced her soon upon leaving Bree that she would have to keep it for the time being: magic rings, he'd explained, are unpredictable when they change hands, and her possession of it for so long made her the safer bearer of the two of them. She could not really argue.

After Rowan had asked where exactly they were going, Strider had replied "nowhere." They were attempting to trace an untraceable path through the land east of Bree, moving in erratic and unpredictable ways with no one destination. The most important task at the moment, he had explained, was to confound the Ringwraiths and force them off of their pursuit, at least for a while. Content with this answer only for a day, she pressed the Ranger to tell her where they would go once this task was done, since even she knew that they could not spend the rest of their lives zig-zagging across the country forever. After a silence, he replied that they would go to Rivendell, in due course, to seek Lord Elrond's council about the ring's fate. Rowan had stiffened and simply replied, "I'll see the elves." Strider glanced at her briefly, but thoughtfully.

"It will not be how you imagine, you know. Do not forget, I was raised there and I know Elrond's people. It will not be as the man at the Prancing Pony told you."

With a shock, Rowan remembered her sense that someone had been watching during that dreadful conversation with Morton on her last night in Bree. A twinge of embarrassment made her chest tighten, although she was not sure why — it was Morton who ought to be ashamed. She could not find any words to answer Strider's reassurance, and to her relief, they became unnecessary.

"I cannot convince you, I know, so we shall see what you make of them, on your own, when you meet them. Even I cannot tell exactly what their reaction to you will be, but you should know that it will not be one of hatred, at least." He ended this last sentence with a smile that Rowan found as inexplicable as most other things about Strider. Not wishing to think about the prospect of meeting an entire city of pure elven-folk, she turned her attention to the road ahead and saw a magnificent hill in the middle of a plain whose top was circled with ruins.

"Does that hill have a name?" she asked.

"It's Weathertop," said Strider.


End file.
